


The Way You Changed My Life

by yodasyoyo



Series: Tumblr fics [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Injured Stiles, M/M, Shy Derek, Sterek Week 2016, Werefox Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: So, I wrote a thing for Sterek week! I love Shy!Derek and I love Alpha!Derek, but you know what I don’t see a lot of? Shy Alpha Derek. So, have lonely, shy, alpha Derek who stumbles across injured werefox Stiles in the forest, and is immediately smitten with him (but fails hard at social interaction).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of think that Stiles is Derek's mate in this, although it's never explicitly stated.
> 
> title from the song They Can't Take That Away From Me.

Derek hears the hunter’s SUV pull away in a peel of rubber. He stays hidden, barely dares to breathe, watching as the car’s tail-lights bounce down the dirt road away from him, tiny red pinpricks of light eventually swallowed by the darkness. He stands there, straining to hear the thrum of their engines, half-expecting, any moment, to hear the roar of their return. It’s a full five minutes before he can bring himself to move.

He picks his way back through the trees as quietly as he can, every nerve still drawn tight as a bowstring, finally he reaches a clearing. By the light of the moon, he can make out the shack he’s been holed up in for the last week.

The hunter’s scent lingers near it now, bruising the air around him. He won’t stay here tonight, he can’t risk it. He just needs to sneak in, collect his sleeping bag, blankets and the tiny camping stove he bought a little over a year ago, when he passed through Idaho. His hands shake as he crams his meagre belongings into his duffle bag. He’d hoped to stay here just a little longer, but that can’t happen now. He takes one last look around the dusty room he’s called home for the past few days, and then steps out the door and away.

Above him the moon hangs fat and round in the sky, it calls to him, makes the blood in his veins sing. He wants to howl, long and mournful, he wants to shift and run for miles, let himself get lost in that feeling the full moon always brings, wild and fierce and free.

He can’t though. Not tonight. Hunters are on the loose and he’s all alone, no pack to protect him, not any more. He slings his bag over his shoulder, and steps forward into the unrelenting darkness of the forest.

 

-

 

Derek hears him before he sees him, hears him even before he smells him. Hears a noise like velcro being ripped apart again and again in an unsteady rhythm, and for one moment he can’t work out what’s causing it. Then it hits him: This is someone’s breathing, ragged and wet and awful.

As he moves closer to the sound, the smell hits him. The iron tang of blood, the acrid scent of panic and pain and beneath that a richer, earthier scent that tells Derek this isn’t just a human, this is a were, but not a wolf. Underneath all that though, there’s something else, something _more_ about this scent. It’s like nothing Derek’s ever smelled before, warm, spicy and inviting. It draws him in, hooks him just under his ribs and won’t let him go, it calls to him, soothes him, pulls at the blood in his veins, just like the moon.

Without conscious thought he’s moving forward, fingers twitching, nailbeds itching, burning with the desire to extend his claws. 

As he gets closer a sliver of moonlight breaks through the trees and illuminates a guy, lying on his side, half buried beneath fallen leaves and dirt; he’s shivering violently, though whether from shock or cold, Derek can’t tell. His head jerks up at Derek’s approach, eyes flickering like a broken streetlight, brown to gold and back again. They stare at each other, one long moment that seems to stretch out forever; all Derek can really make out is dark hair, wide eyes, the general shape of him and his scent. His scent is doing things to Derek.

“H-Help,” the guy pleads, voice thick round his fangs. “Help me, p-please.”

It’s enough to break Derek’s stupor. He rushes forward and drops to his knees beside him. This close the air is thick with the sour stench of pain, and there’s blood, so much blood.

“Sshh,” Derek says, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

There are long gashes along the guy’s bare arms, his face is bloody, leg mangled, maybe broken, and worst of all, an arrow, sticking out of the guy’s side, just under his rib cage. Derek sucks in a breath, he knows from bitter experience that it needs to be removed before the healing process can begin.

“G-Get it out,” rasps the guy. “P-Please.” Derek’s hands hover uselessly over the shaft. The pain is going to be excruciating _,_ and they both know it. He hesitates.

The guy seems to understand. He reaches one hand out and clasps Derek’s shoulder, forces him to meet his gaze. “S’okay. Promise. Jus’ do it.”

And Derek does.

-

 

It’s a messy job, one that leaves Derek’s hands slick and sticky with blood, and the stranger with an open wound in his side that bleeds sluggishly even as it knits itself back together. The guy loses consciousness almost as soon as Derek’s claws dig into his side, which is probably a blessing.

Once the arrowhead is out, Derek sinks down next to him, wondering what to do next. He’s supposed to be half way into the next county by now.

He opens up his duffle bag and gets out his sleeping bag, opens it up and then scoops the guy up in his arms and gently places him on it. Then he rifles through his pack for bottled water and some tissues; he spends the next hour meticulously cleaning all the guy’s wounds. It’s not really necessary, and Derek knows it, now the arrow is out the guy is already healing, but Derek’s full of the need to do _something,_ overcome with an urge to provide, to protect. He barely knows him, but the instinct to care for this stranger is overwhelming. Finally, when he’s finished cleaning him, Derek pulls out his old army blanket and drapes it carefully over him, tucking him in snug and warm. He shudders as he gets a whiff of their scents combined, refuses to focus on how good it smells.

Satisfied he’s made him as comfortable as he can, he sits down, back against the rough bark of a tree and watches over him, waiting for him to wake.

 

-

 

Dawn is nearly on them by the time the guy finally stirs. The sky turning pale and pink as the sun rises. He kicked the blanket off in the night, and as he groans, stretching cat-like, the fabric of his t-shirt rides right up to reveal the fresh pink of newly healed skin, and the taut, flat muscles of his stomach. Derek’s breath catches in his throat.

At that the guy’s eye cracks open, he stills, staring at Derek. “Woah,” he says, eventually. “I thought I dreamed you.” He levers himself up onto one elbow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I guess not.”

Derek rubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly self conscious. “Are you okay?” he asks, gruffly.

The guy quirks an eyebrow, “I-uh- I think so. Don’t remember much.” He glances about himself, taking in the sleeping bag, the worn army blanket, the empty bottles of water and blood stained tissues littered about. His eye falls on the arrowhead and he winces, reaches forward with one hand and picks it up, running his fingers over it. Derek watches his hands, entranced by the pronounced veins, broad palms, the long fingers with knobbly knuckles, and nails bitten to the quick. He’s staring, he can’t help himself.

“You pulled this out of me?” the guy asks, contemplatively, jerking Derek out of his reverie.

Derek nods, the tips of his ears turning pink.

The guy sits up properly then, hugging his legs to his chest, chin resting on the knob of his knee. He seems to be waiting for Derek to continue, and Derek wants to. He wants to say something clever or witty, but he doesn’t know where to begin.

“My name’s Stiles,” the guy says, eventually. There’s an expectant pause. “And you are?” he prompts.

“Derek.”

“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles observes, ducks his head, a faint blush creeps up his cheeks. “I mean, obviously _you_ know that. I was just- shit, nevermind. Thanks, I guess, for, y’know, rescuing me last night. Fucking hunters, man. Am I right?”

Derek shrugs. He still can’t find his words, he hasn’t been this tongue tied since he tried talking to Paige in high school. He scowls. _Say something,_ his brain screams at him, _say anything._ “You’re not a wolf.” It comes out sharp like an accusation.

“No,” Stiles agrees with a nervous chuckle, “I’m a fox. Well, a werefox.” He spreads his hands, palms upwards, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’

Derek’s never met a werefox before. He knew that other weres existed in a theoretical sense, but they’re rare, rarer than wolves.

Across from Stiles stomach gurgles loudly, and he blushes again, red splotches creeping up pale, mole-speckled skin. “Sorry, healing like that always makes me hungry.” He looks sheepish.

Derek’s hand reaches automatically for his duffel bag, tugging it toward him. He rifles through it, pulls out a granola bar and throws it to Stiles who catches it easily.

“Oh my god, you are an actual life saver,” Stiles rips it open and takes a huge bite. For a minute there’s nothing but the sound of Stiles’ chewing. “So, you don’t like to talk much, huh?” he says, spraying crumbs everywhere.

Derek frowns. He isn’t talkative, that’s true, but he used to be better than this. Something about Stiles, the look of him, the way he smells, it’s robbed Derek of all coherent thought. He’s struggling to put a sentence together.

His scowl deepens and Stiles winces. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude or ungrateful or whatever-” he sighs, shoulders slumping. His long fingers pluck at the frayed hem of his tee-shirt. “It’s not you, it’s me. I talk too much, then there’s the complete lack of a filter, the-” he rambles on, listing flaw after stupid, imaginary flaw. And Derek’s hands ball into fists, claws pricking at his palms, he needs to stop him, needs to make him understand. It’s not him. It’s not his fault. He’s _perfect_.

“I like the way you smell,” he blurts out. As soon as the words are out he regrets them. He wants to reach out and take them back, swallow them down where they can’t do any more damage.

Stiles stares at him jaw slack. “You- You what now?”

Derek swallows hard and looks away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But-”

“Leave it.”

Stiles kneels up, shifts closer, “Derek.”

“I said leave it,” he growls, eyes flashing red, fangs dropping.

Stiles huffs out a frustrated sigh, but backs away. When Derek finally dares to look at him, he’s trying to sniff himself, covertly. He stops as soon as he catches Derek watching, blushing furiously.

Derek ducks his head and scrambles to his feet. He busies himself packing up their makeshift campsite.

“So, uh-” Stiles says, watching him. “I was thinking, maybe we could y’know-” he takes a step forward, closer to Derek, “-stick together for a bit.”

“Uh,” Derek croaks, pausing his attempt to fold his blanket. “Stick t-together?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, shifting closer still. “I mean, it’s a dangerous world out there. Especially for two guys like us. We could help each other out,”

 _Yes,_ Derek’s brain screams at him, _Yes, say yes!_ “How?” comes out of his mouth.

“Well you know,” Stiles offers him a shy smile. “Look out for each other. You helped me last night. I could help you, socialize you a bit, not-” he raises his hands. “Not that I’m saying you need it.” Derek doesn’t have to be a werewolf to know that’s a lie. He snorts, rolling his eyes and Stiles grins, small and genuine. It makes Derek’s heart flutter in his chest.

“I could help you,” Stiles persists, shuffling nearer. “You could help me. It could be good. You're an alpha, but you don't seem to have a pack. Wolves don’t like to be alone, they’re pack animals, right? Well we could be, y’know, pack.”

“Pack?” Derek drops the blanket he’s holding and stares at Stiles, eyes wide and unblinking. His heart thumps madly in his chest.

Stiles knocks their elbows together, his scent is everywhere, eyes limned gold in the early morning light. “Trial pack,” he says. “If you don’t like it you can kick me out.”

Derek swallows, too stunned to speak. Pack. Stiles is offering him the chance to have a pack. He hasn’t had that since- well, not for a long time. Not since the house fire that wiped out his entire family leaving him all alone. Stiles seems to take his silence as rejection. His face falls.

“It was a stupid idea,” he says, “Ignore me, I’ll just get out of your hair-”

“Trial pack,” Derek says, cutting him off. “That sounds good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, “Just, try not to get shot again.”

Stiles grins, wide and genuine, and Derek can’t look away, can’t help smiling back.

What has he gotten himself into?

**Author's Note:**

> And they live happily ever after, and are totally in love with each other. THE END.
> 
> This was totally self indulgent. Sorry/Not sorry. I love the idea of shy alpha Derek. Not sure it works in practice. It's like when you're watching one of those cookery competition shows (think GBBO) and a contestant announces they're going to make grapefruit and peanut butter meringue pie, and all the judges just stare at them in horror. Anyway, if you got this far, thanks for giving it a chance :)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/yodas-yo-yo), come say hi!
> 
> Also a special thank-you to anyone who leaves kudos or comments. You are extra specially wonderful.


End file.
